She had seen Everet Mapleson, and made a very natural mistake; she had believed him to be the child she had loved and cared for, and it was no wonder she was pained by his refusal to recognize her.
“I never bought any roses of you in New York, Margery,” he said, kindly. “I have never seen you until now since I was a small boy of five years.”
The woman looked up at him amazed.
Geoffrey smiled frankly into her upturned face.
“The young man whom you met was a Mr. Everet Mapleson; we were in college together, and we look so much alike that we are often mistaken for each other,” he explained.
“Ah! dearie, my heart is lighter now you’ve told me this,” Margery said, with a long-drawn sigh. “I was cruelly hurt when I thought you wouldn’t own me, and I was so sure, too, that you could tell me something about Jack—can’t you tell me where he is? Where, where have you been all these years, Master Geoffrey. Ah, I feared that cruel blow that Jack gave you had killed you, and I’d never see you again; but poor man! he’d never have lifted his hand against you if he’d been himself. Heaven pity him! wherever he is, if he’s living at all.”
She had rambled on in this disconnected way without even waiting for a reply to any of her questions, and Geoffrey felt the tears rise to his eyes, as he realized something of the burden that lay so heavy on her heart, and had made the long, long years so dreary and oppressive to her.
He dismounted from his horse, and taking her by the arm, said, gently:
“Come back to the rock, Margery, where you were sitting, and I will tell you all you wish to know. It is a long story, and you will be weary with standing.”
She looked up appealingly.